


River Soul

by Watergirl1968



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (minor) eremin, (minor) yumikuri, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one, not even Jean, the Camp's Head Counsellor, was safe from the cheeky barbs of the twelve-year-old campers. They knew which of their counsellors were "doing it", which ones had crushes. They even invented names for established couples. For example, Eren and the sailing instructor, Armin, were a thing. 'Eremin', the tweens called them. They called him 'Jeanobody'. Jean x Nobody. </p><p>As summer turned to fall, Jean prepared to close the Camp for winter. It was during that time, as the French River put itself to sleep, that a single canoe appeared out of the autumn mist, bringing an enigmatic young man into Jean's life, changing it forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Boy Made of Butter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fujoshichan69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fujoshichan69/gifts).



> River Soul is a Jeanmarco tale, for Lucy. Thank you Lu...for your generous, passionate heart. May you receive the same love and support that you give to fanfic authors and artists...I hope this story captures many of the things you love. Muchos gracias!

DARK PINES UNDER WATER

_by Canadian poet Gwendolyn Macewen_

 

_This land like a mirror turns you inward_

_And you become a forest in a furtive lake;_

_The dark pines of your mind reach downward,_

_You dream in the green of your time,_

_Your memory is a row of sinking pines._

_Explorer, you tell yourself this is not what you came for_

_Although it is good here, and green;_

_You had meant to move with a kind of largeness,_

_You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream._

_But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper_

_And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper_

_In an elementary world;_

_There is something down there and you want it told._

__________

Perhaps the fact that you can't see out of the rear-view mirror is your first indication that you're finally leaving. Your car is stuffed with coolers, rucksacks bulging with clothing, bins of camping gear, plastic milk-crates full of binders and learning materials.

It's a little daunting, seeing the prow of a fibreglass canoe yawning over the hood of your car. You hope it's tightly secured. If it rains during your drive, the drumming of raindrops on the canoe's overturned keel is hollow and haunting; enough to wake the river souls.

It seems to take forever to shake yourself free of the city; you've forgotten to stop for gas, you've got to pick up an Amazon parcel from the post office. You've brought the wrong adaptor for your iPhone and there's no way you'll last the entire four hour drive without music. You stop at Electronics World and spend $27 on a new one.

Highway 400 northbound is packed. Trailers, motorhomes, cars containing toddlers bawling through applesauced faces. It slows to a crawl just before Barrie.

You've expected this, so you aren't pissed off. You listen to your tunes, smiling a little, knowing full well that sunset will find you on the porch of the Band Lodge, on the Camp Road, listening to the rush of the French River as Levi's pipe smoke curls lazily into the jack pines.

After a few hours, Highway 400 narrows; you pass service stations and diners, tourist-trap trading posts with names like _Wig-Wam Willy's_ , their porches dancing with dream-catchers and Muskoka chairs and trinkets.

Like the teeth of an ancient Atlas, the pink and grey granite of the Canadian shield rises out of the terrain; rocky outcrops begin to frame the highway; high, pinkish walls encased in netting to prevent rockslides onto the road.

There are fewer vehicles now; serious canoe trippers, bush campers, hunters and fishermen. You drive through belts of land that belong to the Ojibway Nation; Dokis and Restoules. 

The shadows grow long. The low sun will be sparkling off the French River now, a wild dance of a hundred-thousand diamonds. It steals your breath and is nearly impossible to photograph.

You know a route to bypass Sudbury, a soot-grey mining town where you once nearly had your front teeth bashed in, until Levi intervened with a Bowie knife.

Finally, you turn onto the Camp Road, the crunch of gravel beneath the car tires slowing you. The road follows the river, pitching and undulating. The tension that had cramped your neck and shoulders that morning in downtown Toronto slowly uncoils as you leave behind the smog and congestion and subways and graffiti.

 _Camp Bawajigaywin_ , reads the worn wooden sign. It's tacked onto the municipal Concession sign post crookedly. You yourself have nailed it back up again at least twice, after it had blown off during winter storms. _Camp Vision Quest_.

While everyone is welcome, the Camp is a place of safety and connection for children and teens, across the full spectrum of identity, gender and orientation. 

You run five sessions throughout the summer. At age twenty-one, you are the Head Counsellor now. But you weren't always an instructor, an outdoorsman and a leader.

Once, you were a little boy made of butter.

__________

OCTOBER, 2015

Jean has been down to the city, for a wedding. It had been a fall wedding; the tables had been decorated with muslin and maple leaves, and each guest had gotten a little jug of maple syrup, which the grooms had prepared themselves the previous spring. Connie Springer had been at the wedding as well, and had proceeded to drink his guest gift, and then several more, until he was violently ill in the fishpond.

The four-hour drive from the city back up to Camp Bawajigaywin, the Ojibway word for 'Vision Quest' on the French River had given Jean plenty of time to think, to turn over the summer's memories like sweet treasures in a boy's cigar box until they settled in his chest, wistful and mournful.

Closing Camp was so bittersweet. Most of the preparations for winter had been completed; this was Jean's last week at Bawajigaywin. He had a few things to look after, and then the Camp would be secured for winter and left under the protection of the Dokis Band Council until spring.

Since age eighteen when he had become a counsellor, Jean had enjoyed spending this last week of the season alone on the French River, watching as the frost coaxed the leaves to violent beauty, the animals fattened themselves for winter and the land quieted under the watchful eyes of it's spirits.

It was growing dark as Jean pulled up to the Band Lodge at the top of the Camp Road. On the porch, a small, dark shape waited for him, pretending that it wasn't waiting at all. The soft orange glow of a pipe bowl gave it away.

Jean got out of the car, long limbs complaining. He stretched, inhaling the wet scent of pine needles, autumn sharp in his nostrils.

He climbed the two stairs onto the porch and sat in the unoccupied chair. 

"Levi," Jean greeted the man on the porch.

"There is fish," the soft, gravelly voice said out of the dusk. "I had Rosie make a plate for you."

Jean squirmed in his chair, trying to shift the dull pain in his groin. "Thanks, Levi," he replied.

Levi turned his head then, taking the pipe out of his mouth by it's bowl and appraising Jean Kirschstein. 

"I thought you went to the doctor in the city," he said softly.

"I did," A wan smile. "A kidney stone is a kidney stone. It's small. There's nothing to be done for it, I'll just have to piss it out. They gave me some pain meds. I'd rather be up here and close the Camp than be stuck in my room in Toronto listening to my parents fight. You know?"

"I can take you into the hospital in Draper if you need to go."

"Exactly. I'll call you if I need. But there's no need. It's a kidney stone. It's small."

"So you say."

"It is. Small."

"I went and fed Benji her dinner, earlier."

"Thanks, Levi." It didn't make alot of sense for Jean to cart his cat all the way to the city and right back again. "She's getting old. I don't think she sees too well anymore."

Levi rose and went into the Lodge. He came back out with a foil-wrapped plate that smelled of pickerel, and a jar.

"Here. Make tea with this. It will help you piss the stone out."

Jean accepted the plate and the small jar, chuckling. "Hey Levi, remember the first time you gave me food?"

"How could I forget? A little boy made of butter."

"Go," Levi said finally. "I'll come down in the morning with coffee."

Jean got back into his car, pulled out of the drive and made his way down the road to Camp Vision Quest where ten cabins, a wooden dining hall and a small white cat waited for him.

 ****__________

JULY 2001

The seven-to-nine-year-olds, known as "Newts"  had their week-long session at Camp Bawajigaywin in early July. Strawberries were bright on the bush, and dragonflies landed, like gilded treasures, on the picnic tables where the little campers ate, assembled crafts and listened to stories.

The hiking trail along the south side of the French River ran through stands of tall pine, which left a copper-coloured carpet of needles on the forest floor.

A group of ten children, wearing bucket hats like a row of colourful lollipops, wound their way along the trail. They were learning about animal tracks and signs as they hiked.

At the end of the line, struggling to keep up with the other children, was a chubby little boy. He huffed and puffed, lip stuck out in fearful pout. He'd never been away from his doting mother, and he felt utterly alone.

"Jean," the kind Glasses Lady chirped to him, "Let's keep up, please!"

He sniffled. He was hungry. They'd been given oatmeal for breakfast. It looked greyish and was dotted with blueberries, like purple pimples. He hadn't wanted that. He'd wanted a cheese omelette, and when he'd said so he'd been told firmly, "No. This is what we're having for breakfast, today."

He didn't hear the word _'no'_ an awful lot at home. He'd pushed the bowl away, sulking.

Now, his tummy rumbled and he was hot and sweaty and he wanted to go home. Tears of self-pity gathered in his pretty hazel eyes, spilling down the plump cheeks.

This drew the attention, not of the Glasses Lady, but of the raven-haired man in the buckskin jacket that was guiding the group.

The man knelt down, taking Jean by the shoulders. At last. Someone to take care of him. And, he knew for a fact that the fierce dark man had chocolate. He'd seen the man unwrap it earlier, take a bite and put it back into his jacket pocket.

"Did you hurt yourself?" The man had a buzzy voice and smelled like soap and tobacco.

"N-no," Jean whimpered. "I-I'm hungry!" He accented this with a little sob.

"Levi, what's up?" Glasses Lady called back to them.

"All good," the man burred. "Go as far as the river lookout,  Hanji."

Still squatting down in front of the snuffling tot, the man took the foil packet out of his jacket. The jacket had fringes, which whispered against his jeans when he moved his arm. He unwrapped it and offered it to Jean.

"Here," he said, "Pemmican."

Jean chomped down on the brown bar. It wasn't chocolate. Not at all. It tasted like shoes and salt.

At this final betrayal, he began to bawl in earnest. "I….w-want…. _my mom!"_

The rest of the children had rounded a bend out of sight. Jean stood in the forest, his small jacket buttoned over his chubby belly, alone with a crazy dark man with stinky-sock snacks and sobbed.

After some moments, when he wasn't gathered into arms and shushed and assured that his demands would be met, he stopped, red-faced and shuddering.

"Sssssh," Levi said softly. "If you stop crying, you will see something very beautiful."

Jean considered this, allowing Levi to lead him a little way down the trail, to where the trees opened onto a sunny crest by the river bank. Levi stopped, knelt down and put an arm around the little boy.

"There. Look. Just there. See him?"

Jean gasped. About twenty yards away, an animal sat, regarding them. A cat, Jean thought, only it was far too big to fit through Benji's cat-flap at home. And it was much bigger than Benji, his new white kitten.  Sitting, it was nearly as tall as he was. It had tufted ears, and dark, watchful eyes.

"Ohhhh," Jean breathed.

"Lynx," Levi whispered. "He's been watching you. This is his way of saying hello."

The cat had a beautiful, ash-coloured coat, mottled with chestnut-brown spots.

"He has freckles," Jean whispered.

He looked at Levi.

When he looked back, the lynx was gone.

 


	2. Stripped Down Cedar

"Christ!" Jean leaned his forehead against the wall of the small bathroom. The pain in his lower groin was excruciating. "C'mon!" he hissed. He pissed dribbles for a few agonizing moments. The pain began to ebb. He hadn't passed the stone.

He'd named his kidney stone 'Joffrey'. It had needed a name. Now, as he tried to expel it he could growl, "Fuck you, Joffrey. _Fuck you!"_

He limped back into the kitchen area of Camp Vision Quest's dining hall. Benji was hunched on the counter, her hackles raised by the anguished grunts of her human. She looked in Jean's approximate direction and mewled.

Jean eased himself against the counter. "It's okay, Ben-ben…" he scratched her soft white head. "I'm just a big pussy." 

The tea that Levi had given him seemed to be having some effect. It contained horsetail, and cedar bark and spirits-knew-what-else. He'd brewed himself several bitter cups, and then, as he'd gone to relieve himself, he'd felt something _shift_ inside. It still hurt awfully, but it was different. 

Jean sighed. He'd been so looking forward to this peaceful week. If the pain didn't subside by the following day, he'd appeal to Levi for help shutting the Camp down.

He went for a walk after dinner, along the south trail of the French River. The span of trail that wound through the stand of pines hadn't changed much since his childhood. He wandered through the trees, stopping on the riverbank.

Jean blinked in the dusk. There, on the edge of the river, was the large spotted lynx. It was fishing; one large, mitteny paw splashing into the river.

"Whoa," Jean whispered, freezing where he was. 

The keen, tufted ears caught his whisper of breath. The cat raised it's head.

It tucked both paws close, watching him.

"Hey," Jean said softly. 

The animal blinked slowly. _Trust._

"You getting ready for winter?" Jean asked in a low, conversational voice. "I am. Trying to, at least. I'm…I'm in a bit of a bad state, though."

He swallowed. Surely, the appearance of his animal friend meant that he would heal. Or die. 

And then, in the blink of an eye, the furry fisherman was gone, leaving Jean alone on the trail in the gloom of dusk.

__________

That night, he dreamed of the lynx, weaving through light and shadow, it's mottled coat melting into the foliage; It's dark, luminous eyes watched him.

He awoke, sweating. The dull pain had returned.

"This is starting to piss me off," he told Benji. He couldn't remember the last time he'd urinated without pain, jerked off, or even slept through the night. "This sucks," he grumbled. He got up to make more of the horrible tea.

Early the next morning, the phone rang as Jean was finishing up a plate of eggs. "Vision Quest," he answered.

"My tea work yet?" Levi's flat tone came through the phone.

"Well, I feel a little different. But no, not yet."

"You got any fever?"

"No."

A long silence. Jean waited patiently. 

"I have some guys."

"Okay. I'll let you know tonight."

The phone went dead.

Jean walked out of the dining hall, onto the lawn overlooking the gentle bend in the French River, where the river quieted and allowed for canoe instruction, sailing, swim lessons and kayaking.

So many lazy days they'd spent on the river. Eren tossing the young ones into the chilly water and laughing. Armin's sailboat out on the river, three or four campers aboard, Armin steering lazily with one foot, toes curled around the tiller, chipped purple toe polish.

Eren and Jean had earned their masters in canoeing the same summer, when both were nineteen. That fall, once the formal sessions had ended, Levi had taken them on their annual canoe trip. Levi was no longer a camp guide; he was now Band Manager for the French River Dokis, and plenty busy. But every year, he made time for a trip with the senior counsellors, up past Great Pine Rapids. 

Jean leaned against a tree, gazing out at the river. It was swollen, mirroring the stainless autumn sky, it's banks ablaze with yellow birch, red maple and rocky pines.

His belly felt heavy. He sighed, unzipping his fly. Putting off having a piss would only make things worse later.

He tried to relax, when a searing heat ripped through his balls.

 _"Fuck!"_ he cried. He looked up, the beautiful scene swimming through his tears.

"Oh…oh no!" He'd left the dining hall's screen door open. Little Benji tottered out onto the porch, sniffing the air.

"No, Benji," he cried miserably. She was too old to wander now, too vulnerable. 

He tried to shuffle forward, his dick still in his hand, and collapsed onto the grass in agony. 

"Hey," A bright voice cut through the fiery cramps that had him buckled helplessly. "Hey, there!"

"Uh?" Jean raised his head. 

A tall, bearded man with a wide-brimmed hat was striding up from the riverbank. "Say, you okay?"

Jean curled up, a broken puppet in the grass clutching his dick, pants around his ankles. "I'm okay," he hissed, "It's n-not as bad as it looks…I just can't…I…Please! Please, can you put my cat back inside?"

The stranger frowned, trying to make sense out of the sandy-haired, half-naked young man writhing on the lawn and pointing to a white housecat sitting on the porch of the dining hall.

"Please, man!" Jean implored as Benji wandered down onto the lawn.

The bearded man looked from Jean to the cat, then approached the cat slowly. He made a soft chirp in his throat, which Benji imitated, ears pricked in curiosity. 

He chirped again, touching her cheek, then picked her up and deposited her back into the dining hall.

Jean found himself unable to move. All he knew was that he had to piss with the force of Niagara Falls.

"I have a k-kidney stone," he bleated. "That's all," and he turned onto his side, in agony and mortification, peeing into the grass.

"Sorry," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"You know, I've had a stone myself," The man was bending over him. He touched Jean's shoulder. "If you can kneel a little….kneel just so…let me help you?"

"I'm so sorry…." Jean whimpered. He thought he might vomit.

"My name's Marco," the man told him. 

"It h-hurts!"

"Take a breath," Marco instructed. "Now, do you mind if I push on your belly a little?"

"Whatever _helps_ ," Jean gasped miserably.

He knelt, supported around his chest by the stranger's thick, freckled forearm. _Had he met this man before?_

A large, spatulate hand reached down, pressing on his belly, just above his pubis. This caused Jean to pass a strong stream of urine. The hand on his trembling belly seemed to radiate warmth, milky and soothing against the horrible pain. Then, it was over.

Jean was weak. Empty. Shaking. 

"I think it's gone," he breathed. 

He looked up into a pair of kind, dark eyes.

"Thank you. Thank the spirits you came along…" he swallowed. "I'm Jean."

"Jean?" the man called Marco cocked his head. "I thought I heard you say Joffrey?"

A short bark of laughter. "No…no."

__________

"Are you sure you want more?" The warm brown eyes studied him.

"Yes, if you don't mind. The kettle is just there. Levi said to drink it _all_ , and add cranberry mash, too."

Marco moved into the dining hall's kitchen, locating the tea kettle.

"Levi?"

"Yeah, Levi….my…our…he manages the Dokis Band. He helps with the Camp. When I was little, he was a guide here. Now that we're all grown up, we canoe trip, sometimes."

Jean flexed experimentally. No pain. No pain anywhere. He sighed with relief.

Marco rejoined him at the round wooden table, placing a steaming mug of tea in front of him.

Jean smiled ruefully. Not a half-hour ago, he and this complete stranger had been kneeling on the lawn, staring at his…well, his _junk_ …working together to get rid of Joffrey.

Jean had washed, put on clean track pants and a flannel shirt. His t-shirt and hair had been sweat-soaked after the ordeal.

"Thank you again. And sorry again. I'm not usually such a baby."

Marco shrugged. He removed his wide-brimmed leather hat, revealing an unruly mass of dark curls. This, combined with the beard prompted Jean to ask, "How long have you been out in the bush?"

"Just about four weeks," Marco said affably. "A bit of a zig-zag. I saw your fire this morning, and thought I'd come see if you could sell me some food. I had a bit of bother with a mother moose and lost my rucksack."

Jean chuckled.

Marco stroked his beard with a large, square hand, grinning.

"Look," Jean said. "Fill your boots. I have to clear everything out in a couple of days, anyway. Shutting Camp for winter. Or, I was trying to…but I've been in so much pain the past three days…" He sighed. "I don't know what you did, but you fixed me."

"I'm pretty handy that way," Marco replied easily, stretching his legs out. Long, well-shaped legs, Jean noted.

"Not so handy with moose," Jean observed, teasing.

"No. Not so much."

__________

Jean and Marco walked down to the riverbank, where Marco had left his canoe.

Jean's eyes widened upon seeing it. He whistled appreciatively, chuckling. "Seriously? This is your Voyager?"

"Yup."

Jean ran a hand lovingly along one polished gunwale. "A cedar strip Voyager…it's in absolutely mint condition! When was it made?"

"Nineteen-eighteen."

"Wow. Just...wow. And you restored it yourself?"

"I keep it floating."

Jean investigated further, noting three canvas rucksacks and a tent, with leather straps. Frowning, he glanced up at Marco again. His guest wore a linen shirt, a trapper's jacket and green, multi-pocket pants. Leather bush boots.

"Oh, shit," Jean scratched his head. "So, what? Are you into like historical reenactment or something like that?"

"Something like that," Marco folded his thick forearms across his chest. 

"Well, your gear is great. I bet this girl weighs a ton, though."

"She's heavy," Marco agreed, "but that's the boat you want to shoot Great Pine Rapids."

"I shot Great Pine," Jean thumbed his chest proudly. 

_Eren and Jean in one canoe, Levi and Armin in the other. End-of-season trip when they were nineteen. Levi and Armin, their canoe loaded down with supplies, had navigated a smooth, safe passage close to the bank. Jean had assumed that Eren would turn their boat to follow, but his sternsman had pulled a hard left, putting them into the centre channel of the Rapids._

_"We can do this!" Eren had howled "Yahoooo!"_

_He'd barked instructions to Jean, who was nearly pissing himself with fear, heart hammering, adrenalin coursing though his young body as he copiloted the canoe down the Rapids to the wide basin at the bottom. When they'd made landfall, he'd tackled Eren to the ground, shaking and shouting at him, "You fuck! You suicidal bastard!" as Eren laughed and gasped and laughed some more._

_"We did it!" Eren cried, clutching Jean's arms. "We did it!" They rolled in the grass, boys set free, laughing and crowing in triumph. Little Armin stepped over them impassively to unload the canoe._

Marco's eyes twinkled. The story had amused him, which pleased Jean for some reason.

"So Eren…Eren is sort of like a rival?"

Jean snorted. "You have no idea. No idea. Just no _fucking idea_. He pushes me. I push him."

"He's someone you have feelings for?"

"Hah!" Jean flushed at the direct question. "No…nope. There's no…no guy in my life, right now." 

_Jeanobody._

No one, not even Jean, the Camp's head counsellor, was safe from the cheeky barbs of the twelve-year-old campers. They knew which of their counsellors were "doing it", which ones had crushes. They even invented names for established couples. For example, Eren and the sailing instructor, Armin, were a thing. 'Eremin', the tweens called them. They called him 'Jeanobody'. Jean x Nobody.

Jean and Marco walked back up the bank, each of them carrying one of Marco's packs.

"I was the little fat kid," Jean smiled. He found it incredibly easy to talk to Marco. "I was pretty insecure. Pretty scared. Coming here to Camp really helped me find my way. I run it now," Jean said, a trifle proudly.

"That sounds like alot of work."

"It is. But it's okay. I have an amazing staff. This is…well, this Camp helps to educate kids about diversity, equality…identity. Those sorts of things. It's a special place."

"Yes," Marco nodded, enjoying his host's animation. "I can see that."

__________

Jean sat on the wooden steps outside of the Camp's bath house. He chuckled to himself, remembering how impossible it was to get the Newts showered and clean. As soon as they were released from the warm spray, they streaked outside, shrieking and chasing one another, feet, ankles and legs becoming caked in grass and dirt.

His curious visitor was currently inside the bath house, making use of it's amenities. The spray thrummed onto the cedar floor planks, splashing intermittently. Marco had asked for the loan of a razor and a bar of soap.

The screen door creaked open, and Marco walked past Jean, still dripping from his shower. "Aaah, fantastic! Thank you!" He strode over to a picnic table which held a fresh shirt, longjohns _(where had he even found those?)_ and trousers, warming in the sun.

Marco Bodt was tall, with a broad, freckled back, roundly-muscled backside and long, shapely legs. He stretched luxuriously, his back to Jean. He looked at the wink of the river through the trees for a few long moments. He turned then, favouring Jean with a dimpled smile.

The beard was gone, revealing a fresh, young face. He was not long out of boyhood, probably close to Jean's age. His face was impossibly sweet, freckles dusting the bridge of his nose, full lips and a piquant chin. 

Jean gaped. "No problem!" he managed to reply.

His cock ached pleasurably, swelling happily inside the confines of his boxers.

"Oh," he said to it quietly as Marco began to dress, "Hello there. Welcome back from the _dead!_ "

 


	3. Tandem

A storm settled over the French River the following day. Thick, blue-grey thunderheads mounted on the horizon, a wind whipped out of the north and sheet rain battered the windows of Camp Vision Quest's dining hall.

Marco Bodt had stayed the night. Jean had lit the brazier in one of the small cabins, rounded up extra blankets and made his guest comfortable. He'd spent the night tossing and turning in his own cabin, fading in and out of watercolour dreams; the forest, the river, the spotted lynx. The muscled curve of Marco's backside. The dark, dense eyelashes. 

He awoke, lying on his stomach, his hardened cock feeling like a roll of quarters beneath his belly. He shifted a little. No pain. HIs kidney stone and the attendant agony were gone for good, it seemed. He slid a hand beneath his body, flattening his palm against his stomach. He pressed a little. What had Marco _done_ , exactly, to cause the stone to pass and relieve his pain? Well, whatever it was, Jean was grateful. He eased one knee up towards his hip, curling his fingers softly around his erection. He moved his hand slowly, sighing with pleasure. 

A heavy sound jarred him fully away, as something lashed against the cabin wall. Jean scrambled to peer out of the window and saw his large blue tarpaulin whirling about the campground.

"Shit!" he growled, flinging open the cabin door to a wet, windy October morning. "Damn it!"

He scampered outside and spent a few long minutes trying to capture the tarp as it gusted overtop of the kayak shed and snared itself between two birch trees.

He finally corralled it, but not before he'd looked up to see Marco peering curiously out of the dining hall, Benji curled in the crook of one arm. The dark-haired traveller looked down at Benji. She looked up at him.

"We want to know," Marco chuckled, "if you ever wear pants?"

Jean held the soaking tarp against his body, a sheepish grin appearing on his face. 

Marco looked out beyond Jean, to the churning grey of the French River. "Say, that's not your sailboat, is it?"

Jean craned around. Armin's laser was bumping against the end of the dock, having come loose from it's moorings. It turned lazily in the rain, and set off downstream.

"Shoot!" Jean ran towards the river wearing only his t-shirt, doubled back in the slippery grass and landed on his backside. "I can't lose that!" he hollered.

"Okay," Marco put Benji inside the door and made for the lake. "Let's chase it!"

Jean ran back to his cabin, scrambled into a jacket, rain pants and sneakers and dashed toward the riverbank.

"My boat?" Marco suggested. 

"You want me to be your bowsman?' Jean's eyebrows shot up.

A grin split Marco's impish face. "Yup. If you want to catch your boat, that is!"

Jean had hoped to coax Marco into taking him out for a tour in the beautifully-restored craft. Now, he found himself frantically throwing ropes, bungee cords and a bailer into Marco's canoe and climbing aboard.

Marco set a strong, even rhythm. Jean was amazed at the speed that the heavy canoe picked up. Jean had become accustomed to Eren's sometimes-erratic pace, barked directions and last-minute decisions. This was different. Marco manoeuvered the craft through the rainstorm expertly, keeping it out of the cross-currents. 

"Shit!" Jean called over the gusting wind, pointing to a small rapid just beyond the camp, "It's going down the Rabble!"

"Guess we are too, then!" 

_"Fuuuck!"_

The heavy, precisely-balanced canoe remained steady through the short rapids. They finally caught up to the errant sailboat, tied it off and made landfall several hundred years downstream, soaked to the skin.

Jean blinked at Marco through the icy water beading his lashes. He gasped, laughing. "That was…." 

"How a canoe should handle?" Marco finished brightly. "She's nice, eh?"

"You're good," Jean wiped his face with his hand. "These lasers aren't cheap. I owe you, again!"

The two of them dragged the small sailboat up onto the beach. "I'll get Levi to trailer it back. And the canoe…"

"We'll portage!" grinned Marco, whose energy seemed boundless.

__________

Jean scrubbed a clean towel through his hair. "I've done nothing but piss around for four days," he grimaced. "I need to get the winterizing done, as soon as the rain stops."

Marco stood uncertainly in the doorway of Jean's small cabin, looking around. 

"I get my own cabin," Jean explained. "Eren and Armin share. Sasha and Historia share…the other staff bunk with the campers. You can sit," he offered. "I'll try and sort us out some dry clothes."

He rummaged through his camp trunk, eyeing Marco. "You're bigger than I am." He found a pair of warm-up pants and a roomy hoodie.

"How about I help you finish winterizing?" Marco offered.

"Oh…" Jean stopped rubbing his head. "Well…the Dokis Band can help me. Levi said."

He sat on his bed, beside Marco. "But if you're cool with it…I'll tell them I've already got help."  

The rain thrummed against the cabin roof, squiggling down the windows and casting uneven shapes onto Jean's bright Hudson's Bay blanket. 

His thigh was warm, tingling where it pressed against Marco's. He cast his eyes down, taking in the freckled forearm, the spatulate hand resting on Marco's knee.

"Where have I seen you before?" he asked softly.

He raised his head. Marco watched him, almost shyly. "Beats me," he said gently. "Around."

Jean lifted his hand, placing it onto the thick shoulder. "If you do remember, will you tell me?"

Marco leaned forward, his full lips brushing Jean's mouth. He pulled back a little, eyes warm and deep. Jean nodded his head, ever so slightly parting his lips and accepting a slow, heated kiss.

A warm heat suffused his chest; the same soft, milky radiance that had soothed the agony of voiding the kidney stone.

Jean pushed Marco backwards gently, laying beside him and nudging his mouth against Marco's until the dark-haired boy moaned, his strong arms closing around Jean. 

Jean shivered; he was neither shy nor tentative by any means; in fact, it wasn't overstating things to call him the camp prankster, it's heart and it's leader. But the quiet strength of the boy whose limbs tangled with his own on the camp cot enveloped him; the gentle lips and tongue laid claim to him until he arched against the powerful chest, pliant and needy in a way that was utterly new to him.  

He rolled onto his back at length, giving Marco, a slow, lopsided grin. "Oops," he said softly.

__________

Marco was outside tying down the possessed tarpaulin overtop of the woodpile when the phone rang in the dining hall.

Jean picked it up.

"Your wood get soaked?" Levi intoned.

"Yeah," Jean snorted. "How'd you know?"

"What time should we come?"

A long pause, during which Jean stared out of the window, watching Marco.

"I-uh…I've ended up with some help. Some guy in a canoe. Wanted to buy food off me. He's helping me close down." Jean felt a tiny bit panicky, not telling Levi the whole truth.

"What guy?" 

"Do you know a canoe-tripper called Bodt? Marco Bodt? He's got a restored 1918 Voyager?"

Levi expelled a long breath, saying nothing for several seconds.

"I know who he is," the words were measured.

"Oh," Jean brightened. "So, he's not like a murdering river man or anything then? I'd be okay having him around for a bit?"

"His people run the hunt camp. Restoules. He won't hurt you."

Jean realized that he was grinning hugely. "Good! That's good. Talk tomorrow?"

Levi hung the phone up.

__________

They had a thick stew for dinner, with the last of the coarse bread Rosie had given to Jean. They lit the fire in the dining hall, which delighted little Benji, who curled up in a cardboard box lined with an old wool blanket and slept.

Jean unrolled his map of the French River between himself and Marco, at the table. "Show me," he said excitedly, "Show me everywhere you've been."

"How long you got?" Marco laughed. 

Marco took a pencil and described a trip of several hundred miles. Jean interrupted with great animation whenever Marco mentioned a familiar location, recounting his own prowess in a canoe more than once.

"Hey Marco," he asked, "you ever see Ymir out there?" 

Ymir was Dokis Ojibway; a wild, solitary young woman that spent the majority of her time on the river. Jean had taken little notice of her, until she'd shown up at camp the previous year with her little brother Willy Chée-sa. Willy had embedded a fish hook in his scalp, and wouldn't let Ymir cut it out. She'd brought him to Vision Quest, looking for the camp nurse, a sweet, diminutive girl called Historia.

"I see her sometimes." Marco confirmed.

Jean was beginning to wonder if he'd imagined the kiss in his cabin, when Marco laid his freckled hand beside Jean's, fingers overlapping the back Jean's hand. "You want some more horrible tea?" he asked.

"Yeah, I suppose," Jean looked up. Marco rose, leaned over and kissed him gently as he went to plug in the kettle.

Benji watched him curiously, small chin resting on the rim of her box.

"What?" Jean whispered, staring at her. "I _like_ him."

__________

They talked until moonset. The wind had finally died down, the forest full of the soft tap-tap of residual raindrops.

Jean rose. "Bring the map," he said softly. "Let's go talk some more."

They lit the fire in Jean's cabin, regaling one another with tripper's tales.

"Okay, here's one for you," Jean smiled in the dim glow of the fire. They lay on Jean's bed, watching the four slanted squares of bright moonlight on the cabin's roof.

_Last year's end-of-season camping trip with Levi had seen himself, Eren, Armin, and Historia camp at Devil's Rock, on a northeast tributary of the French. It had been Jean's task to wash the breakfast dishes. He'd crouched on a flat rock with the plastic bin of dishes, dipping his dishrag into the river and scrubbing the melamine plates and cookware. He'd fumbled his hunting knife, dropping it and watching it slide soundlessly down the rock, beneath the water, down into the clear depths of the river._

_Later, they'd had steak for dinner. 'Aw', Eren had teased, 'Little Jeanbo's got no knife. You want me to cut your meat for you?'_

_'Screw you, Eren,' Jean had retorted._

_'You could just pick it up and gnaw on it,' Historia had offered pragmatically._

_Eren had snickered._

_'You should go get your knife back,' Levi spoke quietly. Jean had raised his head, meeting the smoke grey eyes._

_Jean had taken a dive into the French, secured around the waist with a length of rope, the other end of which he'd given to Armin._

_'What?' Eren had snorted. 'Do we have trust issues?'_

_He wasn't a fan of deep dives. But he'd lost his knife, and it had been a gift from Levi. He dove into the depths of the river, beside a stand of collapsed pine trees that was half-submerged._

_The deep grey-green of the river swallowed him, seeming to suck him downward. He opened his eyes, seeing the glint of his knife. The icy cold pressure hurt his ears. He turned his head to the side. That was when he saw, not dark pines under water, but faces. Faces with soft hair like seaweed, hands and fingers outstretched._

_Jean thrashed wildly, cresting the surface of the river, clutching his knife. He scrambled onto the rock, skinning his knees badly, chest heaving. Trembling, he'd looked up. Levi had nodded at him._

_Wordlessly, Jean had risen, walking up the bank alone and sat hunched on a tree stump._

_'What?' Eren had asked, staring after him._

_'Leave it,' Armin had murmured, touching Eren's arm._

_Ymir had shown up that night, with a flask of something god-awful that had Armin whooping and dancing after only a few swallows. Historia joined him, and they danced around the campfire, two mad little blond sprites._

_"Do you know," Armin announced, "what I found out?"_

_"What?" Historia chirped._

_"Well," said Armin, who had done his internship at a genetics lab, "I had my DNA analyzed. And I," he stood tall, small frame ablaze in the firelight, "I am part Neanderthal!"_

_Ymir guffawed._

_"How cool is that?" Armin continued. "I'm partly homosapien…and partly something else entirely!" His sea-blue eyes had widened "I bet you are too, Reiss!"_

_Part human and part something else entirely._

_Jean, who had said nothing since dinner, raised his head, looking at Levi._

_The two little Neanderthals took off into the bush, searching for more dry tinder. Eren and Ymir went to secure their foodsack in a tree, out of reach of bears._

_"There are spirits in the river," Jean said to his mentor, without a trace of irony or bravado. "I saw them, Levi."_

_"Some of us travel on the river," Levi had responded, lighting his pipe. "Some of us are part of it."_

Marco had fallen silent, listening to Jean recount his tale. Their fire quieted to embers. They slept.

__________

The shadowy dream of the lynx came to Jean…the lynx, the river, the taste of Marco's mouth, berry and lust. He woke, the dream merging softly into the shadows of the cabin, Marco's lips gently coaxing his own apart.

Oh, he had known. He had known this would happen, as soon as he'd invited Marco to continue their conversation in his cabin. He closed his eyes, absurdly grateful for the gentle boy in his bed; the impossibly soft, freckled skin, the heavily muscled outline of his body. 

_I can't tell where you end, and I begin._

The connection, so absolute, defied all logic. It flew in the face of every bit of advice he'd given the teen campers under his care; young people seeking to know themselves, discover their identities, find a way through pain. They all came to him; for as much as he teased them, he was also kind-hearted and pragmatic.

_This was so different._

"Marco," he said softly into the darkness, "I feel this…I just can't shake this feeling that we're like...joined somehow…"

"I know…." Marco's lips brushed his neck. "I know. I don't want you to feel any more pain."

Jean lay on his back, Marco pressed against his side.  Jean felt as though he was turned inside-out; soul on skin.

"Does it hurt?" Marco whispered, trailing hot kisses against his collarbone, his hand cupping Jean's face.

"N-no..."

The hand traced downward, fingers splaying against Jean's chest, the radiant heat delicious. Marco ran his palm slowly back and forth. The bridge of his palm was calloused from the canoe paddle, the roughness abrading Jean's nipple, which stood to attention.

Jean's arms threaded around Marco's neck, nuzzling.

"Doesn't hurt here?" Marco's fingers described slow circles on Jean's stomach, languid and teasing.

Jean's breathing deepened into soft, rhythmic sighs. He squirmed as Marco stroked his belly.

Marco hooked one finger gently under the waistband of Jean's boxer briefs.

Jean's breath caught in his throat and he arched against the warm hand.

"Does it," the merest whisper against the shell of his ear, "Does it hurt here, baby?"

Marco slid his hand inside of Jean's boxers, calloused palm dragging deliciously up the length of Jean's thickening cock.

"Oh, God!" Jean panted, lips open against Marco's neck.

Marco stilled his hand, Jean's erection aching unmercifully beneath it's weight. The hand slid further between Jean's legs, cupping his balls, massaging gently.

"Yes," Jean capitulated, "Yes… _it aches there_ ….it aches…"

Marco's hot, wet mouth found his own, teeth capturing his bottom lip, fingers curling around his cock.

Jean cried out shamelessly. The strong fingers began to stroke him, squeezing the root of his erection, stroking upward, the calloused palm grazing the tender head of his cock. Jean rocked his hips, lifting his ass off of the bed, pushing greedily into the hand.

Pleasure, thick and heavy, pooled in his balls, knotting his belly.

"Jean," Marco whispered huskily, "Have you got….lotion? Something?"

Jean sat up, shaking. He unzipped his shaving bag. There, in a side compartment, he had condoms, and lube. Which he'd never expected to use.

He found himself lifted onto Marco's lap, straddling the larger man, face to face. Marco pulled him close, his dark head bent to suck pink blossoms into the skin just above Jean's collarbone. Jean pushed his knees into the mattress, pressing his groin against Marco's. 

"Hunnh..." The hazel eyes opened, pupils dark and unfocused. "Marco…you…what about you…"

"What about me?" a warm chuckle in his ear.

Jean slid backward a little, fingers playing almost dreamily across Marco's chest. He was strong, and scarred. A worm-work of scars knotted his right shoulder and trailed down his ribcage.

Jean swallowed, tracing the lines with trembling fingers. Marco caught the fingers in his own. "It's fine now. Everything's fine. It was a long, long time ago."

He turned Jean's hand over, squeezing a little of the lube into Jean's palm. 

Jean looked at the slick little pool, gleaming in the dull glow of the brazier. "I haven't done alot of this," he said shyly. "In my teens I…nobody looked at me…I guess I matured late…"

_I looked at you. I watched over you. Always._

"I spend alot of time alone," Marco replied. "It makes me quite good at….at this." 

He closed his hand over Jean's, slicking the lube between their fingers and guiding Jean's hand down to the place where their flesh pressed together, hot and hard as hickory.

"Hmmmm…." Jean sighed, rising up on his knees a little, pressing his cock against Marco's, forcing it up through their conjoined, slicked fingers.

Marco shuddered beneath him, growling softly. A mewl, almost catlike. 

Jean's forehead pressed softly against Marco's as he looked down, teasing Marco's plum-shaped glans with his fingers, flicking it softly, thumbing the tender opening. When Marco began to pant, he made his touch feather light, grinning in the darkness as he grew better at the game.

They rocked together in the darkness, teasing one another patiently, gasping and whining as their young bodies grew taut.

Marco reached a hand around and underneath Jean, cupping one cheek of his ass, gripping it gently and smacking it. "Enough," he growled. He stroked Jean roughly then, without respite, and Jean curled both of his hands around Marco's erection.

Jean cried out as his body uncoiled, coming hotly onto Marco's lap, feeling the strong body beneath him tremble and jerk. The pleasure was intense, verging on pain, spiralling on for minutes. Marco held him securely until Jean melted against him, head resting on the scarred shoulder, boneless.

Long, long moments passed, and Jean remained glued to Marco's warmth. The calloused hand stroked his back softly, in circles.

_I only meant to watch over you…but you have made me a part of you…_

__________

Jean felt a stab of fear the next morning, to see the 1918 Voyager canoe missing from it's place by the riverbank. 

 _Gone to catch a fish_ read the note in the dining hall. 

The storm had passed, and the sky was a high, clear blue. Leaves skittered across the campground, and the river ebbed a deep indigo. Jean felt the snap of frost in his throat.  

_The river sleeps soon._

He wore a olive sweater, mirroring his tawny eyes; jeans, work boots and an orange wool cap to ensure he didn't get his head blown off by deer hunters. He and Marco had made progress on the camp closing. Water pipes were shut off and bled, the dock had been secured, the camp equipment inventoried and stored. The cabins had been mouse-proofed with steel wool and peppermint oil. Jean was setting about cleaning the kitchen stove, fryer and range, when he heard the chug of Levi's truck outside.

Ah. Levi would have fetched the runaway sailboat and trailered it back to camp.

He went out onto the porch, wiping his hands with a rag.

Levi was there, with three others. Romeo Ché-sa, Andrew Stock, and Rosie Restoule, who had made him a plate of fish the previous Thursday, which now seemed like an eternity ago.

Jean bit his lip. This was not a few young guys, come to help shut the camp. These people were his parents' age. Romeo Ché-sa was even older. These were members of the Dokis Band Council. 

Jean flushed, feeling incredibly anxious and wondering if their visit had anything to do with being held on a strong young man's lap and pleasured for nearly an hour the previous night.

"Morning," Jean greeted his visitors. "I'm making coffee," which wasn't true, but it was the polite thing to say.

The small group made it's way indoors, and Jean served them strong coffee. Rosie Restoule had brought scones. "There's lots," she said, looking around the dining hall. "Your helper gone?"

"Out. On the river." Jean answered.

The guests sipped their coffee in an unhurried fashion, complimenting Jean on the care he had taken of _Bawajigaywin_. They asked him about the summer sessions. Jean warmed to the subject matter, describing how his curriculum blended equality programming, life skills and outdoorsmanship.

Jean thanked the Dokis Band once again for leasing the land to the non-profit agency that ran the camp each summer.

"I've been coming here," he reminisced, "since I was seven."

The elders exchanged glances. Andrew Gunstock took a folded document out of his jacket pocket, pushing it toward Jean.

"Letters," he said simply. "We….have each written you a letter of sponsorship. We want to ask you to stay on here. We want to ask you to design programming for our own kids. A winter camp, with a learning centre."

"Oh…." Jean's eyes widened as he scanned the letters. "A…A job offer?"

"More than that," Levi spoke finally. "They are asking you to be part of this community."

"Mr. Ché-sa, I'm only twenty-one," Jean said uncertainly. "I've just finished teacher's college. I haven't taught anybody _anything_ yet….."

"Yes," Rosie Restoule nodded. "you have. We would like you to help us to build programs for Anishinabe students."

Andrew Gunstock rose. "Please think about it."

Jean stood, seeing his guests to the door. Levi hung back for a moment. He studied the young man that he'd spent fourteen summers with. "How are you?"

"I don't know," Jean said softly. "I feel inside-out."

"Think about what they are offering," Levi encouraged. "They feel that you can fit into our community. I manage the Band and it's my job to make the best choice for the Dokis. It's not easy up here, Jean. It's not romantic. Our problems run deep, and they are systemic. You'd need to be patient. And versatile."

Jean reached out, grasping Levi's forearm. Their eyes met, wordlessly.

__________

The day had begun to heat up. A bright haze rose off the French River, lending it an eerie glow. A lone canoe emerged from the mist. A 1918 Voyager, with three pickerel trailing from it's gunwale.

Marco steered soundlessly toward the riverbank, and Jean hurried down to meet him. 

_You needed me as a small, frightened boy. You need me still._

Marco opened his arms, embracing Jean tightly. He dropped his face onto the top of the sandy head, breathing in the sweet, fleeting scent of the mortal boy that was his to protect.

 


	4. Fever Breaking

More than once that week, Levi had asked if Jean had any fever. He did now. His throat ached and his skin had taken on a sheen; by turns hot and chill. He knew he wasn't well, yet he lay with Marco in his narrow bed, limbs entwined, his head nestled against the broad freckled shoulder. He pressed as close as he could, seeking the sweet heat of Marco's skin. 

Marco must have sensed his malaise; he nuzzled against Jean's cheek, murmuring and gentling him in a way that only served to ignite something within Jean's belly. Jean turned his face upward, parting his lips and allowing Marco to taste his overheated mouth.

Marco stroked his back with a tenderness that was testament to years of care, rather than a scant few days. 

Jean sighed, squirming to fit himself even more snugly into Marco's embrace.

 _I have a fever,_ he thought dimly. _It's the fever that Levi was asking me about._

Marco's fingers left hot trails on his skin. Jean shivered deliciously, breath quirking into an appreciative moan as Marco's hand squeezed one of his buttocks firmly.

The blissful heat, coupled with the fever caused Jean to fade in and out of sleep. He drifted, slinging one of his legs across Marco's waist, exposing his groin to the cold night air and to Marco's warm fingers, which tickled his balls and teased the little hole between his cheeks. His own fingers toyed absently with Marco's nipples, nudging them into stiff peaks and drawing a soft groan. 

"I want…" Jean breathed, his voice a rasp in his own congested ears, "I want…"

Marco rolled slightly, long arm reaching out to grasp the little bottle Jean had presented him with the night before. The slippery, warm lotion smelled like new grass. He palmed some of it, painting slow circles onto Jean's bottom, as if committing to memory the muscular curve and swell of his ass. His other hand stroked the back of Jean's opposite thigh, where it rested overtop of his waist, gliding up and down the hamstring, tickling softly behind the knee.

Slowly, Marco brought his warm, slicked hands together, grasping Jean's backside with both palms, fingers curling inward. Jean rolled his hips, pushing his bottom into Marco's hands and thrusting his swollen cock against the ridge of Marco's hip, the delicious friction nearly unbearable.

"Fuck," His voice broke, "Marco!"

Jean thrust backward, impaling himself onto the tip of Marco's middle finger. He whined, grinding languidly onto Marco's fingers, legs jelly-weak with pleasure.

He pressed his forehead against the strong shoulder, panting, his young body writhing as Marco began to finger him in earnest, crooking a digit to press softly against his prostate, swirling, rendering the pink skin soft and pliant. The tender fingering was punctuated with the occasional slap to his bottom, until Jean began to plead, lips against Marco's ear.

"Please…. _please…."_

Marco shifted, and Jean felt the fullness of Marco's erection between his cheeks.

Marco swore, a sharp intake of breath. "I'll make it feel good…" His voice was thick, "… so good for you…"

Marco went slowly, gasping at the incredible heat of the fevered boy's body. Jean pushed back as the tingling sensation he'd experienced at Marco's first touch spread to his balls, his cock and ass until he began to sob.

The sound broke the bubble of Marco's restraint, and he growled, turning Jean face-down onto the bed and pushing inside of him, filling him. He eased himself down, supporting his weight on his elbows, hands splaying and fingers interlocking with Jean's. He brought his mouth down onto the back of Jean's neck, jaws clamping against the soft nape possessively. 

Then, he began to rock gently, hips rolling, fucking the moaning boy beneath him on the camp cot. When Jean tensed, trembling, Marco slowed his thrust, and then stilled. 

"I'm close," Jean gasped.

Marco said nothing, his lips moving softly over the soaked nape of Jean's neck. When Jean was sure he would die if Marco held still a second longer, Marco began to fuck him again, shifting his hips just a little so that his cock rubbed and pressed exquisitely inside of Jean, nudging him to orgasm. Jean came, crying hoarsely into the pillow, keening as Marco's strong fingers stroked him, soaking the sheets.

Then, powerful arms wrapped around him and Marco began to shudder; beautiful helpless sounds rending the darkness of the small cabin as Marco released inside of him.

Jean was spent; light and insubstantial and burning. He remembered Marco holding a cup of cool water to his lips. Then softness against his flesh, like fur. Then nothing.

__________

The mist began to rise off the French River before the sun rose. It curled up the banks, touching the Camp with it's breath until the rising sun ignited it, hazy apricot.

Jean stirred. The cool air kissed his face, where it poked out of the musky warmth of the bed he'd shared with Marco. He stretched, body aching sweetly from his exertions the night before.

He sat up. His head felt light and muzzy. His breath rattled in his chest.

He pulled on long underwear, fleece and work pants, scrubbing a hand through his sandy hair. He peered into the small mirror in the cabin. His cheeks were flushed, eyes unnaturally bright.

"Shit," he whispered.

Jean made his was outside, crossing the verge of grass to the dining hall. Standing by the forked tree and surveying the river, was Marco. And he'd packed his rucksacks.

"Hey," Jean greeted him softly. 

Marco held out an arm, bundling Jean close. The two of them watched the tendrils of mist rise up the riverbank.

Marco placed his lips against Jean's forehead. "How about," he said gently, "you give Levi a call. Let him take you to Draper. I don't think you're too well."

Jean looked up at Marco. Studied the boyish face with it's deep eyes. "You're going?"

He'd meant it to sound conversational; it sounded pained.

"The Camp is ready," Marco replied, "I need to set a few things right before the snow comes, too."

Marco's voice seemed disembodied; it travelled downstream to a place Jean couldn't follow. He tensed.

"Are you…you're not _sorry_ , are you?" _Oh fuck, why was he saying such needy things?_ He'd imagined Marco's leave-taking as being somehow different. He'd imagined himself stronger, bidding Marco farewell, one outdoorsman to another.

Marco studied the moony brightness in Jean's eyes.

"I'm not sorry, in the way that you mean…not like that…are you?"

"No," Jean shook his head, which only served to unbalance him. 

"But," Marco continued, "I'm afraid I'm taking a large part of you with me, when I go. You and I have…well, we've swapped a bit our ourselves, with each other. And I know you didn't bargain for that."

"Marco, I think I might stay here. I want to run a winter camp here, for the Dokis."

Marco hugged him tight. "You will make a wonderful leader," he whispered. "People want to be near you. Not because you have all of the answers…but because you don't. Like each of them, you are curious, and trying to find meaning. They relate to you."

"Thank you," Jean sighed. "I think I've made up my mind, then."

He wrapped his arms around Marco, not yet ready to let him go.

He breathed in; boy-musk and sweetness and leather and grass. "Marco, seriously. Where have I _seen you_ …"

He raised his head, looking into the dark eyes. _The eyes of the spotted lynx, watching him with an unfathomable trust._

  _I have to go now. I need the river. And yet now I need you, even more…._

Jean's world swam. Strong arms caught him.

__________

Beeping. Beeps. The rattle of wheels in a hallway. A baby bawling. Septic white.

Jean's throat ached. He coughed, a hollow sound inside of the plastic oxygen mask he wore. He turned his head blearily.

"Oh! Oh, oh Jean! Jeanbo!!" 

Jean screwed his eyes shut. Wherever he was, the sound of his _mother_ fussing was more than he could bear. 

"Sweetheart," he heard her. She was snuffling. She'd been crying. Why? What was wrong with him?

 Why wasn't he tucked in bed in his cabin, drinking Levi's horrible tea?

He opened his eyes slowly. Oh, it was worse than he thought. Both his moms were here. Kathé, his birth mother, who'd spoiled him rotten, pampered him and now drove him insane. Bette, her wife. She'd been his parent since Jean was two; he'd called her 'Bits' then. He still did.

Mom and Bits were both here, mom was snuffling and Bits was scanning his face.

"Jean?" Bits asked gently.

"Bits," he slurred. "Bits, what happened?"

"You're in hospital. In Draper. You've got pneumonia, and you've had a very high fever but," she caressed his forehead, "you're doing much better now."

Kathé leaned over, kissing his cheeks. "We're going to take you home!"

"Mom, quit it!" Jean grumbled. "I don't…I'm not going…."

He drifted out of consciousness.

__________

He woke later. An announcement over the paging system. Once in english, once in _anishinabe_. He opened his eyes slowly. A fluorescent light gave the room a greenish cast. Quiet. His moms weren't in the room. He sighed. He had had a fever and was in the hospital, in Draper. And he also had pneumonia. Perhaps he'd gotten sick because of the kidney stone. 

He turned his head. Levi. Watching him.

Jean tried to sit up, reaching out for the dark-haired man. 

"Stay still," Levi intoned.

"Levi," Jean blinked, pushing the oxygen mask down under his chin. "I got sick?"

"Fever."

"How…"

"I drove you down here. Two nights ago. I called Kathé and Bette. They came up from Toronto. I had to. You're not a child, but it was right to let them know."

Levi pulled the hospital chair closer to Jean's bedside. "I told your family that I helped you to winterize the camp. Me and Romeo Ché-sa."

The breath caught in Jean's throat. He sat, perplexed, studying Levi's fine, tanned face. His skin tingled.

"But…you didn't though. Marco… _Marco_ was there….Marco. Does he know I got sick? Is he here?"

Levi placed a weathered hand on Jean's arm. 

"We don't talk about Marco. Not to other people."

Jean's voice grew brittle, anxious. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Why? You said that you knew him! You said I had no reason to fear him. I don't get it!"

"I helped you," Levi repeated levelly. "Me and Romeo."

Tears swam in Jean's hazel eyes. "But why? What's the matter with Marco? Where is he?"

"Do as I say," Levi said softly. "When you come back to the Lodge, we can talk."

Jean curled in the bed, the white septic sheets were crisp and cold. He wanted his cabin, his Hudson Bay blanket and Marco. But Marco was gone, leaving only a pale river light in Jean's eyes.

__________

Levi's room at the Lodge smelled of apple tobacco, oiled wood furniture and cedar. Jean had been sent home from French River District Hospital in Draper with a round of antibiotics. 

Levi had snubbed his nose at the blue plastic bottle, plastering Jean's chest with a brown paste that seemed to permeate his bones, finally soothing him to sleep. He'd woken to find the room wrapped in darkness. Beyond the walls of the Lodge, the French River lapped against the rocks.

Jean rose, showering in Levi's narrow tub and pulling on trackpants and a sweatshirt.

He padded out into the main room of the huge, A-frame lodge. The Dokis Band lodge held a general store, a café presided over by Rosie Restoule, and a common area for cards, TV, wifi and conversation. A large, pot-bellied stove held court in one corner. Near it, Romeo Ché-sa and Andrew Gunstock sat, drinking coffee.

Jean nodded his head at the older men. He still felt reverently shy around the Dokis; never wanting to overstep his bounds, nor overstay his welcome. And yet, they had offered him a job. A place in the community.

On the coffee bar, little Benji crouched, her green eyes imploring Rosie Restoule for another morsel of pickerel.

"Fat old lady," Rosie teased, offering Jean's cat another taste.

Rosie glanced up, spying Jean. "Sit," she motioned to Jean to take a stool. 

Jean did.

"Thanks," he nodded. "You seen my moms?"

"They're staying at Puckett's," Rosie told him. Rosie placed a steaming bowl in front of Jean. He quirked an eyebrow at it. "Eat it."

He didn't argue with Rosie Restoule; then again, not many people did.

Levi stomped in sometime after, muddy and chilled. Jean had just spoken to his moms on the phone. He'd wanted to talk to Bits, who was a human resources manager, about the offer the Band Council had made him. 

Levi looked at Jean, then across the room to Romeo Ché-sa.

"Come," he said to Jean. 

They entered Levi's rooms, Levi turning on the pair of lamps either side of his bed. Jean got back into bed; moving about the Lodge had fatigued him.

Levi took off his jacket, hanging it on a hook. He ran his hand along a shelf of photo albums; their weathered spines reddish brown. Slowly, he pulled out a volume, holding it in his hands.

Jean sat up curiously, hands knotting the blanket which covered him. Levi took a seat beside the bed, pouring two cups of fragrant tea, and handing one to Jean.

"I've known you a long time."

Jean waited. Just like he'd waited, sitting on the porch of the Lodge, innumerable times, for Levi to share with him.

"What's the first thing you remember about _Bawajigaywin_?"

Jean smiled. "Crying. In the forest. You giving me pemmican. I thought it was candy. It wasn't!"

"And then?"

Jean swallowed. He could lie. He didn't. "The lynx. The spotted lynx."

"How many times you seen him?"

Jean shook his head, "God, I don't know, Levi? Fourteen summers…all summer…."

"He watches you."

"I know."

Levi opened the album. "Old pictures," he said, placing the album onto Jean's lap. "Look here. You recognize this?"

Jean looked at the sepia-toned photograph. "Great Pine Rapids?"

"Yes," Levi nodded. "And here. See this hole in the ground? This is the foundation of the Lodge you're in right now. Dug around 1900."

"Cool," Jean said softly. "How come you never showed these to me before?"

Levi turned a page. "See here?" he said very gently. "See this boy?"

Jean's eyes widened. There, in an old tintype. A young man that looked just like Marco Bodt, with his 1918 Voyager canoe. Perhaps a grandfather. His heart melted.

"Marco Bodt's people have the hunt camp, downriver. I told you."

Levi stopped then, regarding Jean.

Jean was a young man now. He'd grown tall. He was brash, yet capable. Even so, Levi hesitated. Jean looked at him then, and the river light shone in the tapered hazel eyes. 

"Jean, Marco Bodt's people are Métis. Marco was Métis. He grew up on the French, like I did. Like you did. Only Marco didn't have anything like Vision Quest. Some of his people were cruel to him. Drove him away. People said that he drowned in the River."

Jean was motionless, eyes riveted on the photograph, trying to take in Levi's words.

"Marco disappeared in nineteen-eighteen, the year he got this boat."

Jean began to tremble, shaking his head.

"Jean, not everyone that goes under the water drowns in the river."

"I didn't imagine him," Jean cried. "I didn't dream him up!"

"No. You didn't. He takes many forms. Sometimes, a young man. Sometimes, a spotted bobcat."

Jean searched Levi's face for any trace of irony, and found none.

"What is he?" he whispered.

"He's a river soul."

"But…."

"We don't talk about _them_. Not to outsiders. It's the only way to keep them safe."

"I…."

"He watches out for you. You belong here."

"He's a _person_ ," Jean sobbed softly, "He's a guy….he's just a guy, Levi, with funny clothes and a canoe, and he's kind, and loving…."

"No Jean, he's not like you. But you've joined with him. He becomes more like a man….and you…you have the river in your eyes now…in your blood...and in your soul."

 


	5. The Long Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flagging this chapter for a brief scene of animal injury/blood.

The season of the long dark came soon enough to the French River. And how dark it was. Jean was used to a winter which glittered with Christmas lights, street lamps, traffic and brightly-lit shops.

At Dokis First Nation, the dark was velvety, and absolute. The river itself had rushed, tinkling with an icy purity through the first snowfalls and then groaning in the dark like an ancient beast as chunked ice congealed along its banks.

Dokis First Nation had a Learning Centre which offered alternative programming to the District's elementary and high schools. The Dokis Learning Centre had three full-time teachers and an administrator. Classes were supplemented by the efforts of the young man that kept Camp _Bawajigaywin_ running throughout the winter season, tutoring students and running a drop-in centre of sorts.

Jean had a bit of a limp that first winter. He'd driven his snowmobile into a windbreak, crashing through the woods like a bull moose. He'd bound his foot up in strips, the way Levi had shown him, bought a pot of salve, and carried on.

Jean did as he was instructed by the teachers and by the Band Council. He sat quietly in school meetings, taking notes. He was growing accustomed to folk dropping by whenever it suited them; he kept a good supply of coffee and the cherry biscuits that put a smile onto Andrew Gunstock's dour face. He'd learned long ago from Levi that many things need not be rushed: conversations, decisions, opinions. He was tutoring the Dokis in mathematics; they were teaching him patience.

Jean had taken to layering his clothing in the manner of the townspeople as well; it truly was the only way to keep the bitter cold at bay. He kept the stove in the Camp dining hall stoked, and had nailed extra plastic sheeting over the windows to keep out the drafts.

Tuesday nights, he tutored Duncan Ché-sa. 

Duncan Ché-sa was seventeen years old. He was bright, angry and had lived his entire life on the French River. It was a condition of his parole that he attend school, and pass his courses.

Jean had seen him around town; proud, sullen, with a fall of ebony hair to his waist and hard, wary eyes.

At their first one-on-one tutoring session, Duncan had slumped into the Camp's dining hall wearing construction boots, a hunting jacket and a torn Henley. He'd sprawled at his desk, fixing Jean with a pointed glare. 

Jean had greeted his student. Duncan had continued to stare at him sullenly.

"Thank you for coming," Jean had ventured.

Duncan ran his tongue over his teeth. "Got no choice," he said bluntly. 

Duncan was studying applied mathematics. He worked on a bridge construction crew and wanted to be an engineer.

Jean had turned toward the blackboard, taking in a slow, measured breath. He wrote a formula on the board, and turned. "You know this?"

Duncan's eyes flicked up. Jean watched. He was reading the equation.

Duncan looked at Jean again. "You should go back home," he said.

Jean added more content to the board. He was a decent mathematician. He was able to talk about math's practical applications. He began to chat, even though he got no response. About math, about bridges, arches and causeways. About pemmican and snowmobiles. About Toronto.

At nine forty-five, Duncan Ché-sa rose and shuffled out, slamming the door behind him.

__________

Two weeks later, Jean was getting to the key sections of the unit he was teaching to Duncan. He continued chatting and working though problems on the board, as if Duncan was listening with rapt attention. 

Duncan pulled out a six-inch hunting knife and began slowly shaving his pencil, slouched in his chair, legs stretched out.

"Heard Levi cut a guy in Sudbury over you," Duncan said finally.

Jean paused to look at Duncan. Put the chalk down.

"You need to learn to handle yourself," Duncan suggested conversationally, blowing shavings off of his desk. He stuck the hunting knife into the wooden desk with a thock.

Jean crossed the floor, planting his palms on the desk and leaning into Duncan's face.

"I was fourteen years old," He said. "Levi had taken some of us campers to visit a canoe factory. Me and Eren followed a guy out into the parking lot. He said he'd give us beers. Levi caught us getting into the back of the guy's car. I was a kid. A year older than your brother, Willy. You going to let some guy put Willy in the back of a car?"

Duncan's eyes rolled up to look at Jean. His young teacher was a white boy from the south, but he had an odd light in his eyes and the smell of the river on his skin; blue-green and ethereal. Like his crazy sister, Ymir. The tapered hazel eyes that stared him down were flecked with gold, like a cat's.

Jean plucked the knife out of Duncan's desk, jamming it into a wooden post. He walked back to the board. "Solve for 'x'," he said quietly.

"Abercrombie & Bitch," Duncan muttered. But he picked up his pencil and began working on the problem.

Facing the blackboard, Jean exhaled, and smiled.

__________

The following week brought a pure, brittle cold front that caused the air to sing like metal, and the snow to squeak underfoot. Despite Jean's fire, the dining hall was so cold that Jean's breath plumed in the air. He'd cut the fingers out of a pair of old gloves so he could write on the board. 

His days and evenings were full; tutoring, writing content and keeping up with the camp chores. It was only when he hunkered down in his cot, curled tight against the cold, that he missed Marco with an intensity that brought him physical pain. _Where was he?_ Out in the intense, unrelenting cold somewhere?

Jean would dream; fevered dreams of Marco's incredibly soft, freckled skin stretched over taut muscle; Marco, emerging from the bath house into the autumn sun; saucy and sweet and naked as a jaybird. Marco bedding him, exposing every need, turning and touching and coaxing until he arched his young body hungrily.

__________

Duncan slammed into the dining hall one Tuesday night, plonking a string of largemouth bass onto Jean's desk with a satisfied smirk.

"You know how to bone 'em?" Duncan asked.

Jean looked at the fish, a gift. It made him smile.

"Yeah," he said.

"No, you don't,' Duncan chuckled, swinging himself into his seat.

"I do," Jean huffed, "You don't spend weeks and weeks in the bush with Levi and not know how to fillet a fish."

"Fill- _lay_ ," Duncan teased. "Listen to you. Go home, Abercrombie & Bitch." He grinned, revealing a small gap between his front teeth.

Jean watched Duncan pull out his text and drop it onto his desk.  

Then, the windows shook. The door banged open, a wall of cold forcing it's way into the dining hall. And on the wind, a scream.

A wild, agonized scream, driving into Jean's heart like a spike.

"Fuck!" he gasped. "What the fuck??"

Duncan shot out of his seat, making for the door, Jean on his heels.

Duncan wheeled, his dark eyes inscrutable. "I'm getting my dad," his voice held a strange edge, "You should stay here."

But Jean was already struggling into his parka and boots. "No," he said. "I have to find…that came from the pine forest…I'm going up there…"

Duncan considered this. "I'll go with you. But we have to call my dad…."

He pulled out his phone, thumbing it and spoke to Romeo Ché-sa, in _anishinabe_.

__________

Jean roared up the camp trail on his snowmobile, blood coursing in his ears, tears streaming and freezing on his cheeks. The scream had seemed to choke him, like an icy fist. It ripped at his heart, panicking him.

He sped along the trail, drawn to the ridge above the river, as if to a beacon. Duncan caught up to him, his headlamps bathing the forest in a macabre white light. 

Jean switched off his machine, leaving the headlights on. He swung off it, into calf-deep snow. His student stood beside him, listening. The slow, slurry of the river through the chunked ice. Ice coated tree branches, chiming and tinkling. 

And then, a growl, low and visceral, rising to a cry which ripped at the seam of the darkened forest.

The two young men rounded a bend. Duncan Ché-sa clicked the safety off of his hunting rifle.

Jean's flashlight illuminated the clearing, catching a pair of dark eyes gleaming in the refracted light. The cat crouched low, shaking and growling. His ears were flattened back, teeth exposed.

Jean gave a cry of horror.

The snow around the lynx was frothed pink with blood. He'd thrashed and contorted, trying to free his paw from the cruel snare that held him. The snare had bitten into his flesh, and his paw hung at a grotesque angle.

"Oh, no…" Duncan shook his head. 

Jean began to shake, crying out inarticulately.

He heard a click as Duncan cocked the rifle.

"Duncan, no!" He flailed his arm.

"Jean," Duncan's face was a mask of pain, "Jean, he's suffering…I'm sorry, man…"

Duncan raised the rifle, albeit uncertainly. Jean stood in front of him. "I can get him out," he gasped. "I _know_ him…he'll let me…"

Duncan began to cry. "I don't know…I don't know…he could hurt you bad…"

Jean turned his back to Duncan, facing the frightened creature.

"Marco…" he said softly, tears burning cold on his cheeks… "Marco…. _oh, Marco_ …"

The lynx hissed, but the growl softened to a low whine. Jean took another step.

The cat yowled.

"Move, Jean…" the youth behind him cried, "Jean, you gotta move…"

"Marco…" Jean whispered, "I'm gonna fix it….just let me cut it…"

Jean inched toward the frightened creature, his own knife in his hand. "I got this," he murmured…"I got you…"

He sawed through the snare, grimacing. A flurry of fur and slush, and the cat disappeared into the bush.

Jean sank to his knees, shaking.

__________

Duncan Ché-sa was moving. Taking pictures of the trap. He thumbed his phone again, but couldn't get a signal. "Jean, nobody's allowed to trap up in here. This is Dokis land. Camp property. A poacher's been up here…."

Just then, the whine of several more vehicles on the trail broke the silence. Romeo Ché-sa, Andrew Gunstock, and Levi.

Their faces were drawn and taut in the white glare of the headlights.

"Dad," Duncan apprached Romeo, brandishing his phone. 

Levi's voice: "What happened?" It shook Jean out of his paralysis. He rose, fumbling for his flashlight and stumbled into the dark, following the trail of blood.

__________

In a clearing, under an overhang of jack pine, they found the curled, half-frozen form of a young man, pitifully naked and bleeding badly from deep lacerations to his arm.

Jean rushed forward, ripping off his parka and attempting to gather the young man into it. "Marco," he wept. "Marco, wake up!"

Over Jean's head, Levi and Romeo Ché-sa traded long, measured looks.  

"Duncan, in the trailer, shock blankets and a backboard. Get them,"

The cocky young man's eyes were wide with fear. 

"Now!"

Levi and Romeo worked quickly, tying off and binding the injury, wrapping Marco snugly and securing him with bungee cords. Then, four of them lifted the prone figure, placing him gently into the trailer, and dragging him out of the forest.

__________

Jean felt as though the world had been turned inside-out. In what time and place would one accept that a _river soul_ existed; a young man one moment, a wild animal the next, bound blood and bone to the magical depths of the French River.

There was this; and even more powerfully, this was a man that he'd lain with, talked with, shared time with and felt inexplicably bound to. _A vision: waking in the night; the snap and crackle of his brazier warming his small cabin. Marco cradling him, delicately and intently placing slow, soft kisses onto his cheeks, his eyelids, lips caressing his temples, his hair, his neck. He'd pretended not to wake. He'd allowed Marco to do this for a long time; tender, wistful kisses, with no thought of reciprocation._

Jean shook his head, opening his eyes. They were inside of Levi's room. The room he'd occupied, when he'd been ill. Levi had healed him. 

In the centre of the bed was Marco; bled white, lips grey, pulse weak. Beside him, Levi knelt on the bed, stripped to the waist, his fast hands working. Leaning against the bolted door, Romeo and Duncan Ché-sa.

"Jean," Levi called to him. "Take this wooden bucket. Go to the river, fill the bucket. Don't touch the water inside the bucket. Can you do that?"

"Levi? Isn't an ambulance coming? He has to go to Draper!" Jean cried. "When is it coming?…" He trailed off, realizing several pairs of intent, dark eyes watched him.

"Jean, we can't take him to Draper," Levi said quietly. "If we take him away, he will die. If they put their chemicals into him, he will die. Without the river, his soul will be trapped. Now go and get the water, please!"

Jean ran down to the river, through the snow. Carefully, he scooped a bucketful of icy water. As he walked back up the bank, he heard a commotion near the Lodge. Several vehicles had pulled up in the driveway. He heard shouting, saw people he didn't recognize.

He bit his lip, sensing that it would be best if he was not seen.

He ducked around the Lodge, in through a side door and pounded on Levi's room door. Romeo Ché-sa and his son were peering out of the windows.

"Levi, we got company."

"I know."

"Bodts. And Restoules. From the hunt camp."

"Mmmm," Levi nodded, accepting the bucket from Jean. He peeled back the furs and the shock blanket, chanting softly. "I need quiet,"

"The Mountie's here too. The cop?"

"Eh?" Levi's head shot up.

"Erwin Smith. The cop car just pulled up. Alain Bodt's yelling at Andrew Gunstock."

Levi cursed. "I need to finish this. We need to get rid of them. Get rid of everyone."

"I can do that," Duncan Ché-sa spoke up. "I'm Constable Smith's pet project!" He favoured Jean with a gap-toothed grin and slipped out of the room.

Andrew Gunstock entered the room then. "Alain Bodt went looking up on the ridge. Found blood. He heard what my son heard. Marco is…part of their lives, too. He knows Marco has been injured, and he's angry. Thinks we were trapping up on the ridge, but we would never do that. Never there. It's a sacred place. The river souls know it's safe…at least….it was..."

He looked sadly at the pale figure on the bed. "Corporal Smith heard the Bodts were coming our way in a couple of trucks, so he's here, thinking there's gonna be trouble."

"I can't speak to Erwin right now," Levi rasped. "I can't speak to him. I need to prepare Marco…there is no time..."

Duncan Ché-sa sauntered out onto the porch, taking a swig out of a beer bottle and smashing it on the driveway. "Hey, Alain," he called to his rival from the hunt camp, "What you want, you piece of shit?"

Alain Bodt strode up onto the porch, grabbing Duncan by his collar. There was a scuffle, and Alain Bodt swung at Duncan. The two of them rolled in the snow, trading blows until Corporal Smith pulled them apart.

He yanked Duncan Ché-sa to his feet, shoving him against the hood of the RCMP Jeep, frisking him and dispossessing him of his knife. "Duncan," he growled, "Last strike for you."

Duncan twisted, his face mashed against the hood of the RCMP vehicle, and grinned triumphantly. "So what now, asshole?"

He knew what now. A holding cell in Draper, until Levi came for him. And maybe no more school. He didn't care. He'd helped to save a river soul.

__________

The vehicles pulled away, several individuals following Corporal Smith to Draper, to give him a report about the poacher. _An animal had been caught in the trap,_ they'd inform him. _Probably chewed it's leg out. Probably died. Now the entire camp would have to be scoured for the trapline. Damn lucky no one was hurt. Damn lucky._

The townspeople did what they needed to do for the river soul, and that was to go inside, dim the lights and wait. Rosie Restoule made coffee for Andrew and Romeo, who huddled by the stove.

Inside of Levi's room, the air was thick with sweetgrass smoke, and pungent with the brown goo that Levi packed around the horribly injured arm and smeared on the still, freckled chest.

Jean knelt on the bed, both of his hands cradling Marco's face, as Levi had instructed. He'd begun to feel light-headed, his body ached, his own right hand throbbed cruelly. 

_You've given part of yourself to me…._

Levi chanted softly, wetting the grey skin with river water, _cleaning, cleaning, purifying, healing…_

__________

The door opened then. A tall, slender figure, thickly wrapped in winter gear. A quick hand pulled down the face visor.

"Ymir!" Jean gasped.

"Hey," the rich, wild voice. "Not much like summer camp, eh?"

"Ymir….." Jean whispered helplessly.

Ymir looked reverently at Levi. " _Nanandawi,_ " she addressed him. Frobisher is coming for him."

Levi nodded. "Jean, we've done what we can. We have to let him go."

The hazel eyes swam with tears, "Go? Go _where??_ What do you mean, Levi?"

"His people will come for him."

"I don't understand…" Tears spilled down his angular face, splashing onto the waxy forehead.

Marco moved his head, moaning.

"Marco," Jean whispered, "Marco, I won't leave you…"

__________

The community was peaceful and still beneath stars that burned like fire in the northern sky. At the end of the long wharf which served the community, two braziers had been lit. Between them, on the dock, a wooden stretcher. Lying prone, wrapped in blankets and secured, was the river soul.

Jean had refused to leave him. He crouched on the dock, shivering, fingers clutching the fur over top of the faintly-beating heart. Levi stood at the end of the dock, silently.

It was so nonsensical, a critically-ill boy being left on a wooden pier in the middle of the night, when he should have been in the ICU in Draper.

But Jean trusted Levi more than anyone else in his world; Levi was not only his friend, and his mentor, but this night Jean had learned that he was also _nanandawi_ , healer of his people; not just the Band Manager.

The moon was setting, painting everything ice and navy; the dark stands of evergreen, the bare-limbed birch and maple trees. The river shimmered, sluggish with ice. A fog had begin rolling in toward the camp, whispery lace.

The crack of the ice on the river seemed to snap Jean's spine. He sat bolt upright, the breath freezing inside of his chest, as out of the river rose the dark shape of a huge, birchbark canoe. It was over twenty feet long, curved upward at either end, pale and adorned with symbols; birds, fish and other figures.

The fog itself took on a pungence; earthy and thick. It coated Jean's nose and throat, and he began to tremble.

The huge canoe held five or six figures. It seemed to glide silently through the ice, _on top of the ice_ , toward the dock where Jean huddled with Marco.

A single figure stood. He was tall, bearded, with wild hair and eyes like chips of moonlight. He was dressed head-to-toe in skins and furs, the buckskins adorned with buttons made of whalebone and horn.

This must be the individual Ymir had described: Frobisher.

He felt Levi's hands on his shoulders. "Jean, back away now. Let them come…."

Jean scrambled backward, watching as the canoe soundlessly pulled up alongside the little stretcher, hands reaching for it, pulling it into the wide-bottomed boat until it vanished from view.

The bearded apparition stood then, looking intently at Levi, and at Jean before pushing the canoe off.

Jean watched it back away, turn and vanish into the thick fog. He'd reached the end of his wits.

He turned his face into Levi's chest, clutching Levi's jacket in both fists and wept as though his heart would break.

__________

_"Sssssh," Levi said softly. "If you stop crying, you will see something very beautiful."_

_Jean considered this, allowing Levi to lead him a little way down the trail, to where the trees opened onto a sunny crest by the river bank. Levi stopped, knelt down and put an arm around the little boy._

_"There. Look. Just there. See him?"_

He is part of you, and you are part of him.

____________

Many weeks. Levi said it would be many weeks before any sign of Marco could be expected, if at all.

Over and over, Jean tried to tell himself that Marco had…well, if not _family_ , then at least people. People that had come for him. Family that bore the name Bodt, at the hunt camp. People on the river that had come and taken him.

He tried to tell himself that even a mortal man…a man like himself, could survive a serious injury to a limb, as well as exposure. Marco was strong. He was large, and strong.

At night, as the darkness descended and swallowed the camp, all of Jean's logic unravelled, and he rocked himself to sleep in his bed, chattering with cold, dread worming in his belly.

Jean awoke one morning to a new sound; a steady _drip-drip-drip_ from the eaves of his small cabin. It was the first thaw. He'd sat up, rubbing at his face, listening. Thaw. Surely, that change, that circling of the seasons, must mean something.

Over days and weeks, the snow receded, and the French River rushed, heady and grey with the melt. 

Then, oddly, crocuses began to appear around the camp; purple and yellow, pushing hopefully through the snow. Armin.

One night in early March, Jean skyped with Eren and Armin. "Dude," he said, "The crocuses that you planted with the seven-year-olds came up."

Armin giggled. "Seriously? Cool! I'm glad someone is there to see them."

"You look like shit," said Eren.

"Everyone looks like shit on Skype," Jean retorted.

"No, man. You look like extra-special shit. Are you even eating?"

"I eat," Jean frowned.

"How's it going there?"

"Aw, man. So…the paperwork is a fucking joke. It's like, unending. I made some mistakes. I have to fill out stuff for funding, and like, assessments and schedules and I have to basically show how the content fits Ministry guidelines. But…" he smiled, thinking of Duncan Ché-sa, "the tutoring and winter sessions have been cool. I've learned a ton…"

"Aren't the kids supposed to be the ones learning?" Eren shoved a fistful of barbecue chips into his mouth.

"You lonely?" Armin asked.

Jean's face must have betrayed him.

"Oh, no…" Armin cocked his head. "What is it? You are lonely, aren't you? Doesn't the community include you in stuff?"

Jean's throat began to thicken. "More than you know," he said quietly.

"You're being weird," Eren twisted a Twizzler around his finger. "What's going on? And don't lie."

Jean glanced around his small, cozy cabin. Little Benji had taken up residence in Rosie's café for the winter; the Lodge was much warmer than the camp.

"There's someone," He peered into the screen.

"Ooh! Really?" Armin elbowed Eren.

"But listen," Jean said soberly, "It's not a thing. Not a thing…he's not out. Like…not at all. He lives and works on the River and he's only around sometimes."

Eren frowned. "How do you know this guy?"

"His family has lived here for ages. Levi knows him. He's around our age. And he's decent…."

"He can't be crazier than Ymir!" Armin chortled. "How's Ymir? Do you see her?" 

"I see her. I taught her younger brothers this winter."

"Historia misses her," Eren said, picking up his pillow and kissing it theatrically.

Jean heard a knock at the door then, and banging on the porch. "Listen man, I'm gonna go. Levi's dropping off some wood for me. He's outside. Later!"

Jean closed his laptop, as Eren began whipping Armin with a Twizzler.

He shrugged into his jacket, and opened the door. 

On his porch, thin and pale, with dark eyes burning...was Marco Bodt.

Jean let out a ragged cry of surprise, dropping his tin mug, tea wetting the rag rug. Then, his arms went around the gaunt figure, pulling him fiercely close, inhaling musk and river.

Marco's embrace crushed him, pulling him inside of the cabin. Marco kicked the door shut, leaning against it.

Jean pulled back, hands finding Marco's face through the dark growth of beard, his eyes searching the river soul's.

"Hey there," Marco said softly, "Thought there might be some stew on?"

Jean began to cry, shaking fingers pulling off Marco's wool scarf, the buckskin coat, pushing off the wide-brimmed hat. "Marco…Marco…are you…?"

Marco held up his right hand, flexing carefully. "It's stiff," he conceded, "but I've got all my fingers… _Nanandawi_ saved me…saved me from a very bad place…a place where the lost wander.

"You're not lost," Jean pulled Marco close, a fist closing in the chestnut hair. "You're not lost…you're mine..."

__________

The heat of the sweat lodge was exquisite. Levi and Jean had dug it out, before the ground had frozen. Levi had taught Jean how to stoke it, what wood to choose, how to get the cleansing steam to rise.

"Calm," Levi had said flatly, as Jean had chatted animatedly about the small sweat Lodge. "Calm, Jean. You don't babble like a wild turkey inside a sweat lodge. Calm."

Jean felt as though his limbs were melting inside the warm, gorgeous heat; he lay inside of the sweat lodge, pressing against Marco, their wet limbs gliding together. Time had slowed, like the sap running inside of the trees.

His heart had finally calmed; his weeping had ceased.

Here, there was only a warm, languid, pure joining. Jean opened his lips against the soft, sweet skin, lapping at the salt. His cheek rubbed against Marco's freshly-shaven one; he turned his head, plunging his tongue into the warm mouth. 

"Sweat lodge," murmured Marco, "is for meditation, you know…"

"I'm doing that," Jean whispered, "I am meditating…about each freckle…every line of you…"

Marco moved his fingers, cupping Jean's rounded ass, pulling Jean's leg over his hip.

"This should not be," Marco said softly. "I don't know what will happen…"

Jean sighed, easing his relaxed opening down onto Marco's erection. "God…I missed you…so much…"

Marco began to rock his hips, deepening their joining.

"I'm taking part of you…" Marco moaned hoarsely, "Jean…Jean…"

His name on Marco's lips caused Jean's belly to flutter, tightening. He squirmed, hips jerking roughly, skin slapping wetly against Marco's, his lungs full of sweetgrass and cedar. He buried his face against the strong neck, his cries breaking against Marco's skin.

__________

If you've never seen a wild lynx take a snowball in the face, it's quite comical. The cat snorts, shaking his head and looking as though he's plowed headfirst into a meringue pie. The young man that threw the snowball at him laughs, hazel eyes bright above his scarf. The cat has been a willing target of course; for it allowed him to hear the laughter of the young man; an amused snicker, breaking into a guffaw, like rapids over rocks. It's a sound that the cat loves.

There's a rock ridge running up the south side of the French; pink granite as the Canadian shield forces it's way up through the mossy roots. In winter, when the trees are bare, you might catch a glimpse of a young man running and stumbling up the ridge, laughing and falling, with a large, dappled lynx in full pursuit.

It's a game of chase that lasts for hours; for spring is coming, the sap is running, and it's a time of new beginnings.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope that you enjoyed River Soul. This fic seems to have ended with more questions than answers! There is more to share about Ymir and Krista, about Levi and Erwin, about Armin and Eren, and of course about Marco and the nature of the river souls...and what his love for Jean means. If you liked this fic and might be interested in more of this AU, please let me know! Find me at watergirl1968.tumblr.com. Love and peace.
> 
> This is a work of imagination, written for enjoyment. The characters herein are fictitious, and I apologize for any misrepresentations.


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